The Girl Under the Olive Tree (46 page)

‘I thought there was something different about you. You look so thin and pale. I’m sorry, of course, but I think it was for the best. This is no time to bring a child into a battlefield, not when we have so much unfinished business.’

Yolanda was too stunned by these words to reply. What had happened to them? Who was this man who looked on her and their baby as distractions? What had happened to that warm beloved doctor, where had he gone? In his place was a stranger, a hardened warrior, armed to the teeth, full of plans that didn’t include her. He was too busy being a hero to come and find out about the fate of his wife.

Why was it Stavros who brought the news? What did he know about lists of Jews? How could he claim to have seen her when she wasn’t there? Why had he, of all people, managed to escape from the prison? Suddenly she felt an overwhelming sense of dread. Her home was turned over to an army camp, the farm was in ruins almost, land untended and his parents no longer there to support it. Now there was an attractive young woman swaggering around the leader. Had Anna been quick to take her place?

In the past months Yolanda’s whole world had crumbled to dust and she was left dangling in a strange empty space, stuck between the living and the dead with no place to call her own. She stared out at the neglect around her.

No, that was not strictly true. Here was her abiding place. If she was surplus to Andreas’s life now, she was certainly needed here on the farm. Once he rushed off with his band she would be alone, and the land that had fed them and nurtured them would return to jungle and brush. That was not going to happen.

There were livestock roaming round; they must be counted and brought back. With milking came cheese to sell. The land needed her, ham-fisted though she was. This was all there was left to her now and she’d not shirk from the task of restoring it.

There was honour in such hard labour and the pain of it would keep the madness of grief from her door and the memories of happier times from overwhelming her.

‘She’s alive, Lois. Yolanda survived. Can you believe it? We have to find her.’ I could hardly contain myself, seeing Alex and Lois lounging in the Limani Ouzeria by the harbour, sipping glasses of freshly squeezed orange juice.

‘Calm down, Aunt Pen, you’ll have a turn, sit down. You need a cold drink. Tell me what happened.’ She turned to the waiter for another juice.

I rattled through the visit to Etz Hayyim, the book of names and Yolanda not being there, or that she was but only as a survivor. ‘I thought she was dead and she was safe all along. I can’t believe this. We have to find her.’

‘What did the guide actually say to you?’ Lois leaned forward. I had to admit my mind had gone blank. ‘I just fled. Oh, how rude. I didn’t even ask his name.’

‘Look at me, Pen. Did he say she was still here or if she . . .’ Lois paused, ‘. . . if she was still living?’

‘Oh, no, surely not, I didn’t ask.’ I got up to leave but her hand pulled me back down.

‘Sit down, calm down. There’s no rush. Let’s do this systematically. What was her married name?’

‘It began with an A, I think, no, her husband was Andreas, Dr Andreas something, but he had a cover name, Cyclops. All their surnames seem to end in “akis”.’

‘How many one-eyed partisans who were once doctors with the Red Cross are there on Crete?’ Lois laughed. ‘Victoria at that hotel said she’d help up link up with their Resistance veterans. We’ll go back to the synagogue together. They probably know the answer, but be careful. It was a long time ago and there was civil war, earthquakes and a dictatorship. Please don’t get your hopes too high.’

Lois meant well but I wasn’t ready to hear her reality. ‘But those flowers on the grave, they must be her doing. Now it makes sense.’ My thoughts were racing so fast I could hardly breathe.

Rainer Brecht was sitting by the harbour enjoying the last few days of his holiday. All the Battle of Crete ceremonies were over. There’d been a reunion of German veterans, which he’d attended out of politeness: lots of back-slapping, talking over old comrades, a ceremony at Maleme, low-key but moving nonetheless. He was shocked at how old they all looked, and he soon tired of endless toasts and old battle songs. No one could sing ‘Red shines the sun’ without tears in their eyes for all those for whom there was ‘no way back’.

He would be flying into Athens soon and staying a night at the Hotel Grande Bretagne for old times’ sake. He had strolled through the narrow Leather Alley to find belts for the boys with studs, a wallet to replace his tattered one, and a fine pair of furlined gloves for his granddaughter, Irmelie.

In his travel bag he carried the package nursed so carefully in his luggage. His first stop was the Museum of Byzantine Art in the old street where El Greco was born, but it was closed so he sauntered slowly to the old monastery church in Halidon Street, which now housed the Archaeological Museum.

The sight of the building reminded him of that terrible night of looting when officers and men sifted through all the sacred objects and texts from the synagogue, scattering ancient books and scripts onto the pyre in a spree of destruction.

He had turned away from the burning of all that knowledge and scholarship, sickened by the ignorance of men who knew nothing of a dedicated lifetime’s study for truth. He had seen the cave nurse staring at him with contempt, her eyes searching into his soul, stripping him of any pretence of honour in what had been perpetrated that night. He had reached the depths of his shame, facing the worst of their excesses and knew then he must leave the island.

Now he felt the coolness of the old building a relief from the hot pavements. He sat on a bench fingering the once-looted icon of St Katerina, which had brought nothing but bad luck to his family, first to his sister, who had lived a diminished life of fits and pain after her accident. He recalled his mother’s dying rebuke. ‘You sent her this gift but I’ve never liked it. She looks down on us with such accusing eyes. I’m sure it is valuable but take it away. We are good Catholics, we have our own saints. I fear she has a bad history. Return her to Greece. Don’t keep it, it will blight your life, and don’t tell me how you came by it, Son.’

He’d been too rational a man to be superstitious but he did recall the fate of the officer who threw it at him. He’d sent it in good faith, not understanding how precious these devotional pieces of art were to those who owned them, venerated, handed down from generation to generation.

He’d read up about the Cretan school of icons and how the painting of them was an act of worship. This belonged in the house from where it was looted, a house where it would have meant so much. He had stared into those dark pools, those almond eyes, and knew he must take St Katerina home to Crete. It was this little object that had challenged him to make this pilgrimage in penitence for all the vandalism. Only then, perhaps, would he be cleansed of the past memories that haunted his dreams.

Now he was here, he felt nervous, awkward. How could he explain its soiled heritage?

There was no one on the information desk, no bell to ring. He planned just to leave the wrapped package there but that was too easy, too anonymous. It needed some explanation. He found a garden courtyard full of statues and remnants, outside in the very yard where the fire had burned. He found a shady spot to write a note, but what could he say?

He walked back through the cases of antiquities and saw with relief a young woman busy at the desk. He paused.

‘Will you take this for me?’ he said, sliding the loose package across the counter. She smiled, opening the paper, but he had already made for the entrance.

‘Wait!’ she cried. ‘Where did you find this?’

He fled down the busy tourist street before she could chase him. That was the last of his ‘must dos’. If only it were so easy to wipe away the memories of those far-off days.

Now, as he caught his breath in the harbour café, he felt safe enough to smile. He wondered what they were making of the mystery package he’d left. He hoped they didn’t think it was a bomb scare. Would it find its rightful owner or end up in a church dedicated to St Katerina? He hoped the former.

Funny, how ready he was for home now. There was nothing holding him here but this last important task.

He sat watching the glass-bottomed boats chugging out of the ancient harbour with its stone wall reaching like an arm into the sea. There were ponies clip-clopping on the front, holiday-makers slurping ice-cream sundaes under the shady awnings. We didn’t destroy it all, he thought, just ourselves for a while. These are tough people who threw off layers of invasions from Minoans, Romans, Turks, Venetians.

The garrison held out to the bitter end in Chania, cordoning itself off by a ring of scorched earth and fire, retreating from the rest of the island back to a single fortress until the surrender in May 1945, when they were escorted off by the British to POW camps, but not before they were strip-searched for loot.

He knew how they feared the revenge of the Cretans for all the misery heaped onto them during occupation. Eventually they all went home from prison camps to devastation, to a country divided into sectors, to starving families, broken homes, tribunals, executions. They had sown the wind and reaped the whirlwind. He had heard the bitterness in the voices of ex-soldiers at the reunion, excuses for being misled by leaders. There were no excuses, and in the end you fought for the comrade next to you, as he fought for you.

Perhaps the world had learned a bit of sense but there were always fanatics who believed only they had the truth, who wanted to stamp their politics or religion on everyone else. He was glad he’d not be around to see another catastrophe should it come.

His eyes were following the family across the table, the same family on the ferry and at the memorial. The old lady looked so animated, so alive, the daughter reaching out to calm her down, the young boy already bored, playing on his Nintendo game.

He wondered what their pilgrimage had been. Were they now coming to the end of their holiday, suntanned, relaxed with carrier bags full of souvenirs?

We north Europeans like our sun, he thought, smiling, to make up for long dreary winters. He was curious about the English family as they chattered. The grandmother sat upright, alert. She caught his eye for a second and he smiled and she smiled, then turned back to her family.

He’d always had an eye for a handsome woman, and even in old age this one had that fine bone structure that never aged. He’d love to know the history etched on her face. It was a face that had seen much. He’d like to have captured her features. That was one of the few perks of the prisoner of war camp in Canada where he had time to learn to draw with a competence to capture the essence of a face with a few lines, just as the artists on the harbour pavement were copying photos or sketching children for their parents and a fee.

Stop being fanciful, he thought. The one face he’d wanted to capture, he never had, though he’d tried many times afterwards to hold onto the memory of Penelope.

He smiled, thinking of those precious days in Athens when the barriers between them relaxed enough for him to catch a glimpse of the woman behind the mask she presented to the world. It would be in Athens that he would feel her presence most.

Rainer was shocked at the devastation of the ancient city. It was a jungle of warring tribes, factions loyal to communists, nationalists slugging it out like outlaws in the Wild West. The centre of the city was recognizable but the rest was a litter of ruins, shanties where gun battles between police and partisans made every corner of these streets dangerous. He was glad he was only passing through.

True to his word he’d escorted Penelope into the shopping quarter. Hermes Street was still open for business. She bought some sandals and a cotton dress and underwear. He bought a shirt and plain slacks. It was strange to be out of uniform, if not illegal for an officer, but being on leave and not known, it was worth the risk.

They made awkward shoppers. He didn’t want to let her out of his sight. She didn’t want to be seen with him in case they assumed she was his whore. She was silent, still clinging to her scruffy rescue ensemble, embarrassed at his presence, but there was a truce of sorts.

He was stepping out of line in not reporting her. Nothing was said about the explosion or the contents of the ship. It was as if no one wanted to know any details. The nurse was never registered. She’d continue to pass herself as Greek, fooling them as she’d fooled him for long enough, but he could see she was still in shock. Was she fit to return to nursing? Would they accept her back? She didn’t seem even to notice her change of city. It was as if she were sleepwalking.

They made for the open green spaces of the National Garden but sporadic gunfire sent them heading back for safety to a quiet street where they found a taverna. He watched her eat without tasting any of it, darting glances at him as if she wasn’t sure who he was or why she was here.

‘What will you do now?’ he asked, breaking the silence between them.

She shrugged. ‘What I am trained to do.’ There was no enthusiasm in her voice.

‘But what would you like to do? You once told me you were an archaeology student here.’

‘Did I? I forget so . . . but I’d like to see the School of Archaeology again, if it’s still standing.’

‘I’ll take you there.’

‘I know where it is,’ she snapped.

It was like trying to smash through a bell jar to reach her. Why was he doing this? He could be enjoying his leave with nightclubs and willing girls.

‘I haven’t seen it. They say it’s a famous landmark. There’s so much of Athens to see.’